


Raw Emotion, Baby

by zoodlino



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Cheating, Heavy Angst, Jealousy, M/M, Partner Betrayal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:22:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22564708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoodlino/pseuds/zoodlino
Summary: Eames is cheating. And Arthur knows it.A betrayal in three parts.
Relationships: Arthur & Eames (Inception), Arthur/Eames (Inception), Eames/Robert Fischer
Comments: 3
Kudos: 59





	1. Would Have Bled To Make You Happy

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the song Wake Up Call by Maroon Five...I couldn't help myself, and here we are. Enjoy! xx

It’s in the squeak of the door hinges early in the morning, the dip in the bed when Eames rolls out of it long before he actually has to get up.

Eames is cheating, and Arthur knows it.

It’s not that the sex isn’t good. It is – pretty darn stellar, if Arthur dare say so himself. It’s more that Eames has stopped meeting his eyes for longer than strictly necessary, has grown to prefer flipping Arthur over onto his knees rather than taking him on his back.

So, naturally, Arthur begins snooping.

For a guy as seemingly all over the place as Eames appears, he has a killer internal organization system. This much Arthur knows. Problem is, it’s password protected.

Arthur doesn’t flatter himself enough to think that Eames was ever in love with him, but they have been fucking for over a year, so he tries his best to hazard a guess at the password.

 _paisleyrulez._ Enter.

<ERROR: WRONG PASSWORD>

 _EamesIsTheBest100._ Enter.

<ERROR: WRONG PASSWORD>

Another dozen guesses later, Arthur is at his wits‘ end. While it’s not like he doesn’t have the world’s foremost hacking software at his disposal, this is personal. It’s a matter of pride.

And a matter of the sinking dread Arthur feels at yet another... what? Boyfriend? Partner? Lover?...betraying him. But no, Arthur’s brain is not going there right now. What he is doing is solving this problem. By any means possible.

Perhaps...approaching the task logically, Arthur is the most likely person to try and crack Eames‘ laptop, what with them conducting official and, uh, perhaps less official business in hotel rooms all around the globe.

Eames routinely leaves his laptop strewn haphazardly over whatever surface he can find before pinning Arthur to the wall, but it’s too nonchalant, too rehearsed.

Eames is not, as the casual observer might infer, chaotic and scattered. Eames is calculated, Eames is careful, Eames is...well, more than a bit of an asshole. And that’s before he was cheating on Arthur.

What’s the one thing Eames thinks Arthur won’t try? What the hell...It’s worth a shot.

 _AnalArthur69._ Enter.

<ACCESS GRANTED>

Motherfucker. Arthur needs a drink, badly.


	2. So Don't Say A Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things progress... this time a certain Queer as Folk ep served as inspiration! xx

Eames‘ laptop background is, unsurprisingly, a hideous floral concoction. Arthur has to shield his eyes as he searches for the most telling piece of evidence: Eames‘ calendar. Despite Eames‘ feigned affinity toward complete and utter entropy, Arthur knows about his iron-clad dedication towards documenting his time. What for is as much of a mystery and enigma as Eames himself is. 

Naturally, Arthur ends up discovering Eames‘ day-planner in a folder titled “Porn”. And there it is: within the last months, every couple of days, the initials “RF” crop up. That can only mean one thing. Fischer. Arthur is seething, and in desperate need of that drink. He settles for a few miniature bottles of straight vodka from the hotel fridge's minibar. 

He slams the laptop shut just in time; the hotel door lock beeps, and in comes Eames, looking much too disheveled for it to be the result of casual work occurrences. Bastard.

As per usual, Eames chucks his briefcase to the side without a second thought, loosening the tie at his throat. Why he needs to continue this farce, Arthur doesn’t know. He also doesn’t know why he simply doesn’t cut Arthur loose; it’s nothing Eames hasn’t done before and won’t do again. Maybe Arthur is just biding his time. Either way, Arthur is furious. 

“Arthur. I wasn’t expecting you. I thought you were out trailing the mark.”

Arthur shrugs, his body a tense line. “He retired early tonight. So did I.”

“Right.” Eames’ face is carefully blank, and it only infuriates Arthur further.

Arthur’s next words are all venom, bitten out between clenched teeth. “And you’ve been… _hard_ at work I presume?”

Eames’ retort is cut off abruptly by Arthur backing him into the painted surface of the hotel door, bracketing him harshly between his arms, watching the way Eames' expression changes from aloof to vaguely bashful. Arthur’s sure Eames can smell the vodka on his breath, but if Eames‘ judgement is clouded enough to fuck Fischer, it clearly isn’t worth Arthur’s consideration.

All Arthur can think of is the tiny "RF"s in Eames' planner, a slap in the face of all the years Arthur and Eames spent dancing around each other. But apparently, Eames is just as duplicitous and egoistic as each and every one of his enemies claim.

Arthur closes the distance between their lips with the same determination he usually reserves for tracking their marks, single-minded and relentless. 

As they kiss, more teeth than finesse, Arthur catches a whiff of cologne on Eames, something earthy and full of musk, not at all like the cologne Eames favors. Arthur's stomach is in knots, and his anger turns desperation as he palms Eames through his pants, eliciting a groan from the cheating prick. 

What Arthur wants more than anything is to get Eames wound up and not take him over the edge, to make him want and leave him wanting, because Arthur is not ever a second choice. Eames may be good in bed, but no one’s that good.

Eames squirms against him suddenly, breaking their liplock. “Lovely as this is, I need to take a shower. Get the stench of the day off.” Eames’ gaze is challenging, his lips pursed, chin thrust out ever so slightly. He knows exactly how wound up Arthur is, has learned to read his body both in bed and out. Arthur curses himself for having the idiotic idea of falling for a professional con-man.

Arthur lets the silence stretch between them, meeting Eames’ harsh gaze with one of his own. He tilts his head, leans into Eames, their lips only inches apart. Despite himself, Eames’ pupils are blown wide, and his tongue darts out to lick his lips. 

This is a cold war, and neither of them is winning. Maybe it's time to back out and count his losses, Arthur thinks. 

Arthur deliberates, hovering, only to avoid Eames' lips and instead leaning in toward Eames' neck, inhaling deeply.

"You're right. You reek. Now get out of my way." Arthur roughly shoves a sputtering Eames away from the door and into the room, grabbing his suit jacket from the wardrobe and exiting the hotel room unceremoniously. 


	3. Pull The Trigger, No Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title from XOV's "Lucifer".... xx

The hotel bar is swanky, gilded and not at all to Arthur’s taste. Nevertheless, he deems the need for getting drunk stronger than any aesthetic sensibilities.

The bartender eyes him sympathetically, leaving Arthur to reflect exactly how his life went this wrong. Stupid Eames. Stupid dream share. Arthur should have just become a lawyer. Something properly boring too, like tax law.

The last time Arthur felt anchored was with Cobb, who even at his darkest and most guilt-ridden at least presented a problem to manage; Arthur thrives at problem-solving, relishes it, has made it his specialty. Inception left Arthur floating free, high off the success but with nothing to channel it into.

In came Eames, who felt the same yearning for more, bored and restless after perfecting the forgery game. Of course Arthur, stupid idiot with attachment issues that he is, instantly paired up with Eames, under the guise of working only with the best, a moniker he’d never let Eames know he uses.

Truth is, he wanted to see what Eames could do as an extractor. He has the character for it, tenacious and assertive, both traits that used to make Arthur’s knees just the tiniest bit weak. Now all he can feel is bile rising at the back of his throat. It was good while it lasted, he tells himself.

Arthur’s alcohol intake is leaving his head spinning with that nice, tipsy kind of buzz. In fact, he could swear the ceiling is spinning as well. Maybe he’s had enough, literally and figuratively.

Arthur is tempted to reach for his totem, more muscle memory than anything else, but that would be giving in, hoping for all of this to be fake. He refuses to give Eames the satisfaction.

Speak of the devil, and he shall sidle up to you and occupy the bar stool next to you. “Hello, you sexy minx. Been drinking without me?” 

Taken aback, Arthur stares openly at Eames. “What the fuck do you thinking you’re doing?”

Eames’ grin falters ever so slightly. “Joining you for a drink, of course. Rude of you to start without me, after the day I’ve had.”

It’s as if their confrontation earlier had never happened, and this is not a game Arthur’s willing to play.

Still, Eames looks good, surprisingly subdued in grey slacks and a black sweater. It brings out his eyes, and….his five o’clock shadow. Which is funny, since he’d been clean shaven not half an hour ago in their hotel room.

Even through his drunken haze, realization dawns on Arthur. He’s a fucking idiot, but not for the reasons he’s assumed. He knows Eames, knows the minutiae of him in and out. And whoever that was in their hotel room, that sure as hell wasn’t Eames.

The Eames across from him smirks. “Now you’ve figured it out. Go on, ask me how I’ve spent my day.”

Arthur tenses, and it all falls into place. The non-descript hotel room, the unnatural inflection in Eames’ accent earlier, the way everything just feels a little bit rough around the edges. _This is all a dream._

His projection of Eames, for that’s all he can be, looks like the cat that’s had the cream. “There you are, pet. I’ve been raising hell with the team working on you, but someone keeps plugging the fuckers back in. It’s freaking whack-a-mole.”

Arthur’s ears are ringing as he fumbles for his totem. Sure enough, it lands on a three, not the weighted four. Fuck. And what’s worse, somehow his subconscious militarization is being led by his projection of Eames. Talking about embarrassing; it’s basically a love declaration. Christ.

On the bright side, if the team keeps re-entering the dream, that means there’s no heavy sedative involved. Which idiot came up with a one-level inception attempt, Arthur is dying to find out. He’d call them amateurs, but he was too close to falling for their con.

The Eames next to him is grinning in between downing a glass of whiskey. “I’ve led them on a merry chase, my love, but it’s time to wake up.”

Arthur nods briskly, slamming down his own empty glass and tossing the bartender a few notes. Just because it’s a dream doesn’t mean the service personnel isn’t to be respected.

On impulse, Arthur fists his hand into Eames’ sweater, dragging him close and kissing him for all he’s worth. When they part Eames is beaming at him, and Arthur never wants to let go of that image for as long as he lives.

Shocked at his own train of thought, Arthur clears his throat as Eames smiles knowingly. “Right then. I’m off.”

With that Arthur grabs for the ever-present Beretta at his hip, points it at his own temple, and pulls the trigger.

For some reason, the bullet feels less horrible than the ache in his chest he had when he’d thought Eames was cheating on him. It’s an odd thing to realize, and nothing Arthur will ever share with Eames, but there it is.

As his vision transitions from blurry to clear, Arthur can feel someone shaking him by the shoulders, calling his name. Is that...it’s Eames, alright, with a bloody gash on his forehead and a crazed look in his eyes.

“Arthur, pet. Can you hear me?”

Arthur tries to speak, but his tongue is heavy in his mouth. What kind of crap batch of Somnacin did these idiots use on him?

Arthur takes a moment, leaning forward into a seated position, shaking his head in an attempt to get rid of the residual drowsiness. “Fuck. Who was it? Kasakov? Shenty?”

Eames shakes his head grimly. “Worse. Nadiah.”

“Christ.” Arthur wants to get up, but his legs are still feeling tingly and numb. “Should have guessed, she’s always had terrible taste in chemists.”

“She got away, but she can’t have gotten far. Your militarization must have run them down pretty hard.”

And if the handcuffed and bound bodies around them are anything to judge by, Eames was up to the same thing topside.

Arthur’s cheeks go slightly red, but Eames knows him well enough not to comment on it.

“As if I would ever hide my secrets in a folder labelled ‘porn’.” Eames shakes his head, a rueful smile playing on his lips.

\- Fin -


End file.
